


Next Time, We'll Split the Bill

by Catchclaw



Category: GoldenEye (1995), James Bond (Movies), James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, First Time, M/M, Pre-GoldenEye
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-06 22:00:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3149822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, James finds Alec. Sometimes Alec finds him. It isn’t safe, or smart. Any of it. But god, it feels good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Next Time, We'll Split the Bill

They're in Bermuda the first time it happens, slick with the sun and the heat.

“Too much Bacardi,” Alec says in the morning, face pale under the cheap bathroom light. The space is tiny, too big for both of them to fit in and move, so he's shoved up against James' side, their faces both cut off by the mirror. They look like two halves of a whole.

“Yeah,” James says, turning the shaving cream in his fingers. “Next time, you're buying.”

He's not sure what he means by it, exactly, but it comes out all right, it must, because Alec laughs, the sound hearty and loud, too loud for this early, this hungover, this fucked-out.

“Like hell,” he says.

He claps James on the shoulder, skin against skin, and James catches an echo of the night before--two hands on his shoulders, nails fierce in his neck, that low, amused taunt in his ear:

“That's all you've got, James? I'm disappointed.”

His own snarl in response, words long lost in his hips, in the sweet fury of his cock, the velvet burn of Alec’s body.

That voice again, lazy with drink and something too much like affection.

“Fuck me like you mean it or don't bother.”

Alec's hand falls and he steps away, into the shower, sighing under the spray, and if there's a ring of red marks under James' chin, they disappear soon enough under the foam.

The next time is in London.

There's a clusterfuck in Beijing that winter, aftershocks from the handover agreement, and it shakes M up bad enough that he pulls in the whole fleet, every 00 who can currently walk and a couple on crutches. He locks them in a room with some smug Company boys who, as M is quick to say, “have a far better hold on this mess than we do, gentlemen.”

The Americans are swift and efficient, although the information they bear is brutal.

“Two steps from a coup, eh?” Alec says in the lift, after. “Well, well. Seems we've been asleep at the switch.”

James rolls his eyes. Tries to work the kinks out of his neck. “Speak for yourself. When’s the last time you had to dust off your Mandarin, eh? I heard you’ve basically bought property in the Eastern Bloc.”

“I can’t help it if Her Majesty's resources are not always evenly allocated," Alec says. "I go where my government tells me.”

The words are light, teasing, but there's a brush of unease on his face that James decides he should push. Just to keep the day interesting.

“Since bloody when? I've never known you to mind your manners, Trevelyan.”

Alec's smile is all teeth. “I wasn't aware that you were keeping track, Bond.”

“Weren’t you?”

The air between them goes taught as a ripcord and James pulls it, lets his intentions furl out on his face. Watches Alec's eyes narrow, dark and sharp.

“Yes,” Alec says. “But not here.”

They take James' car because it's parked near the lift. Go to Alec's flat because it's only ten minutes away. Fuck on his couch because it's closer than the bed.

This time, there's no booze to blame, no sunstroke to point to. This time, Bond's still in his tie and his dress shoes when he tips Alec over the arm of the sofa and fingers him open as fast as he can.

“Fuck,” Alec says, again and again, “fuck yes, James, come on.”

“Behave yourself, darling,” James gets out, tugging a condom over his cock. “It's not good manners to beg.”

They make a mess of the couch, of Alec’s bed, the flat a tangle of clothes and profanity, bruises and bite marks and kisses that go on too long.

“Next time,” James says, lingering at the side of the bed, swinging his keys in his hand. “You're making me breakfast.”

Alec flips him off and stretches under the sheets, not bothering to open his eyes. “Like hell.”

Six months and several bullet wounds later, there's Berlin.

It's a smash-and-grab, M tells him. Quite simple in name and on paper.

But the smash site is a Stazi archive, tucked underground in the heart of the city, and the grab requires two suitcases and at least a half an hour, Q says, to properly pack.

James knows it'll be a bitch going in, no matter how nicely M tries to spin it as his kind of thing, the sort of job that Bond Does Best.

Yes, James thinks, eying the watchtower and counting the seconds between sweeps of the spotlight. The old man's losing his touch.

Well. Maybe James is, too, because he doesn’t get ten steps over the border before he’s tackled, before the spotlight comes to rest in his eyes as a soldier plants a boot on his back.

He’s right. The mission’s a bitch.

They drag him over the grass in the dark and throw him in a dirty room with too much light. There are three men in uniform who shout at him for a while, just to hear the sounds of their own cleverness.

Yes, the East Germans are happy to see him, if their interrogatory zeal is any measure, as one particularly well-put question has James bleeding all over his collar. He can feel his lip going fat as his interrogator, flush with his triumph, gestures to his comrades and laughs, long and hoarse.

“This one,” he says, rubbing his red knuckles on his shirt. “This one will be entertaining.”

James ignores him, stares at the fluorescent lights overhead. He only needs 10, maybe 20, more seconds and he'll have the handcuffs popped and this room halfway to a melee. His fists are already twitching for the smarmy little bastard who struck him and he's got his knees set, ready to pounce the moment he's free, when the door behind him--there was a door?--bursts open.

“Duck!” somebody hisses, a split second before a flashbang flies over James' head and, ha, cold cocks the interrogator right in the chin.

Then his hands are free and someone--Alec--is pressing a gun into his palm.

“Really,” Alec says, tugging James to his feet, “I'm embarrassed for you.”

It takes two clips and half an hour of running, another of driving, for Alec to declare their escape a success.

“Escape?” Alec says, incredulous, twisting the wheel hard to the right. “That was a bloody rescue, James, and you know it.”

James waves his hands in the dark, at the trees giving way around them. “Fine,” he says. “Either way. Thank you.”

The safe house is far out in the country. A farmhouse, maybe, one that never made it all the way back after the war. There aren't any lights for miles. No cars. It's quiet. A little odd. Like stepping back in time.

There's running water, at least. Some decent tinned food thoughtfully laid in. And a bottle of vodka that Alec produces as James is gingerly washing his face. The dirt comes off well enough, staining the old basin brown, but the blood takes more doing.

The bed yelps when Alec perches on it, and James can see his reflection in the cracked mirror as he pries the bottle open with a knife.

“What?” Alec says, when James turns around, raises an eyebrow. You know as well as I do: the company stores are always lacking. Best to be prepared."

James laughs, or tries to, but his lip cracks open again, sending another gory splash down his shirtfront.

“Fuck,” he manages, pressing his cuff to his mouth. The damn thing's a loss anyway. “Fucking fuck.”

He hears the bed creak. The touch of a hand on his arm, warm and hard.

“James,” Alec says gently. “Come on now. There, that’s right. Let me see.”

He can't use his mouth that night, can't kiss or suck or bite, but Alec lets him touch. Lets him smooth his palms down Alec's chest, over his ribs and under his cock. The fire in the grate is pitiful, frankly, a poor reflection on them both, but there’s light enough for James to catch the shadow of Alec's smile.

“That's enough now,” he says, tugging on James' hair, on the damp curls at the nape of his neck. “Enough.”

James pitches over him, breathing in black cigarettes and red wine, gunpowder and crops long gone to seed.

“Who put you in charge?” he hums, nosing at Alec's throat. “Don't remember signing up to serve under you.”

Alec laughs, tugging James closer and catching their cocks in his fist. “Exactly, my boy,” he says. “Exactly.”

He works the pleasure out of James carefully, with something that feels too much like consideration, like care. It's unsettling, how easy it is for James to close his eyes and swear and come all over Alec's hand. How good it feels to have Alec turn them over, press his mouth to James' back and cant his fingers up inside.

“Tell me if I hurt you,” Alec murmurs. “Promise. You'll tell me if I hurt you.”

“You?” James says, the word thick and sweet in his throat. “Never.”

He comes again with Alec buried deep, his chest pressed to James' back as James jerks himself through it.

“Yeah,” Alec says. “Yes, yes, oh god, you're tight, дорогая. You're so tight for me, aren't you? Shit, _shit_ , I can't--”

He shoves his mouth against James' shoulder and shouts and when he comes, he clutches at James like he's drowning.

“дорогая,” he whispers. “Ah, James.”

When James wakes, there’s a tin of beans and an opener set next to his head. A note taped to the can: _Bought you breakfast_.

Alec is gone, but the car is still there, along with his gun. A map locked in the glove box. The smell of black tobacco.

A note under the steering wheel:

_Next time, we’ll split the bill_.

 

                                                                                                             **********

Oslo.

He’s on his way home after a month in Delhi and another in Dubai. One more night here, a quick stopover in Amsterdam, and he’ll be on the beach for a while, it looks like.

For this, James is grateful. He’s tired. For the first time in ages, he can’t wait to get home.

But there’s a note for him at his hotel after dinner.

_James_ , it says. _Wait up for me_.

It isn’t signed. No distinguishing marks on the paper, in the handwriting, and yet he knows exactly who it’s from.

Upstairs, he takes a shower and orders champagne. Sets condoms and lube on the nightstand and feels a bit ridiculous. Like a bridegroom.

Because this is different. There’s no accident here, no coincidence. Alec is coming for him and James is waiting, in turn, and whatever happens between them will be by choice.

He gives in about midnight and opens the bottle, loses himself in the bubbles and tries not to stare at the door.

By two, the champagne and the hour conspire to send him to bed. The sheets are soft and smell of lavender. They’re cool against his bare skin.

He must sleep, for the light from the hallway jolts him up. He reaches for his pistol, automatic, and then Alec is there, plucking the thing from his fingers and humming.

“This is you waiting up?” he says. “I’m hurt.”

James grabs his tie, because he can, and licks at his mouth.

“You’re lucky I’m still here,” he says, shoving at Alec’s jacket. “Take your fucking clothes off. Right now.”

Alec kisses him once, hungry and deep.

“What time’s your flight?”

“Seven, I think. Maybe eight.”

Alec grins, knocks James back into the pillows, and reaches for his belt.

“Plenty of time.”

The sky is grey behind him as he strips, the first hints of sunrise creeping up outside in the cold. Alec takes his time, peeling off one layer after the next, until he’s naked, outlined by the dawn, and the way he looks at James, the way James feels himself staring back, it’s--

It’s different.

“What?” Alec says as he slides under the sheets, winds their bodies together.

James kisses his jaw, his throat, his mouth. “Nothing,” he says. “It’s nothing.”

The sun comes up as Alec rides him, teeth bared and nails caught on James’ chest. James holds on to Alec’s hip, his dick, and says: “Yes. _Yes_. Look so good taking my cock. Come on, take it, darling. Take what you want.”

Alec howls, a sound from his spine, and shatters, coming in quick, angry jerks as he curses and twists on James’ cock. He’s beautiful, James thinks as Alec falls down to kiss him. Fucking beautiful.

He flips them over, Alec loose and hot in his arms, and fucks hard, Alec’s hands in his hair as he slams in again and again.

“Yes,” Alec whispers in his ear as he shudders, filling the condom and shaking, shaking. “James. Yes.”

They leave together, stepping out onto the sidewalk in stride. Alec hails him a cab.

James get in and Alec leans over, still holding the door. For a moment, James thinks Alec might kiss him. Instead, he touches James’ face and says:

“Get some rest, дорогая. You need it.”

 

                                                                                                            **********

 Singapore.

Buenos Aires.

Prague.

Sometimes, James finds Alec. Sometimes Alec finds him. But after that, after Oslo, they come together by choice, not circumstance. And somewhere, between fistfights and break-ins and beautiful women, explosions and gunshots and broken bones, there is something that feels too much like love.

In New York, they stay in bed, after, Alec reading the _Times_ out loud as James drowses, breathes easy against Alec’s shoulder.

In Sao Paulo, Alec drags him to dinner, after, a local place tucked into an alley. They drink too much wine, cheap and sweet, and stumble home, touching too much to be sane. Fall right back into bed.

Alec blows him that night, drunken and sloppy through the latex, and James can’t remember the last time he came like that, laughing, giddy with how good it feels to have Alec touch him, kiss him, beg for his hands in return.

“Fuck it," he says when James doesn’t move fast enough, won’t stop laughing long enough to get a hold of his cock. “Fuck you. I’ll do it myself.”

He kicks off his trousers, his pants, and leans back on the bed, cock fat in his fist.

“Watch me,” he says, his eyes dark and bright. “Please. Watch me, James.”

James stares. He loses track of his senses, seeing Alec bring himself off, loud and almost brutal. He clutches Alec, after. Holds him down on the bed and licks the come from his skin. Lets Alec suck it from his tongue.

It isn’t safe, or smart. Any of it. But god, it feels good.

In April, Chernobyl goes up and M calls James in: drop it, leave everything, come right now.

He’s in Melbourne, trying to help the Aussies sort out a domestic bombing, and it takes a full day and more to get back to London and in to see M.

M, who’s whiter than James has ever seen him, stone-faced as a grave and fearful, James thinks. In all the years James has known him, the old man’s never shown him fear. Not like this.

“It’s the Russians,” M says. “We suspect it wasn’t an accident.”

“Terrorism?”

“Not exactly. A cover, of sorts.”

M hands over the brief and keeps talking, as is his wont. James nods along politely as he reads--chemical weapons sales, shady separatists, etc.--and waits until M takes a breath.

“So there were chemical weapon stores at Chernobyl?”

“Yes. But--”

James cuts him off, easy. “But you’re worried it wasn’t the chemicals they were after. You think these people are looking to upgrade their wares, as it were.”

M looks relieved, though he tries to hide it behind a schoolmaster’s frown. “Yes, thank you, 007. Your impertinence doesn’t become you, you know. There’s no need to prove that you’re the smartest chap in the room.”

“Sorry, sir.”

“I sincerely doubt that.”

James tries to make his features contrite. “When do I leave?”

M turns his back, business already done. “In the morning,” he says to his bookcase. “0500. Don’t be late. Oh, and”--his voice goes cold, almost brittle--”you’re to rendezvous with 006 on site. Not before. Is that clear?”

“Sir,” James says again. “Yes, sir.”

At his flat, he tosses Q’s contributions on his dresser and reaches for his suitcase. Almost misses the man behind the bathroom door.

“So,” he says, tugging the case from his closet. “Tell me, 006. Does this count as ‘on site’?”

Alec snorts. Steps out and stretches his legs. “You got that lecture too, eh? Well, well. Maybe the old man’s still got it. Still has a trick or two in that withered quiver of his.”

He’s dressed in black, ready for travel. A suit that James has seen him in a dozen times. But there’s something unfamiliar about him, now. Something in his face that James has never seen.

When Alec reaches for the case, pulls it away and sets it on the floor, James doesn’t fight him. Just steps into it, grabs Alec’s shoulders and opens his mouth for a kiss.

“What is it?” James says, soft, blowing the words over Alec’s cheek. “What’s wrong?”

Alec’s arms go tight in his back, fingers clawing at James’ jacket.

“Don’t go,” he says. “To Russia. This mission. Don’t go.”

James laughs. Nips at his ear. “Why not? Afraid I’ll show you up, old man?”

Alec shivers. Tucks his mouth against James’ ear. “Because,” Alec whispers. “I don’t want you to. It’s not fair. It shouldn’t be you.”

Before James can answer, before he can think, Alec is on him, tearing at his clothes and muttering something James can’t really hear. There’s a desperation in him, a fury, that James doesn’t understand. Doesn’t try to. Instead, he leans back and lets Alec have at him, lets himself be stripped and thrown onto the bed, lets Alec cover him, still dressed, still mouthing words that James can’t quite catch.

“I want to fuck you,” Alec says, his hands around James’ wrists, pining them over his head. “I want to fuck you, James, but I can’t. I can’t. There isn’t time.”

James arches up, presses himself against Alec’s body, the wool rough and stark on his skin. “Next time, darling,” he says. “You will. Next time.”

Something in Alec’s face shutters, like a door slamming shut, and he leans down, kisses James again and again, until James is gasping, rolling his hips up and fighting against Alec’s hold.

“Please,” he says. “Let me touch you, Alec. Please.”

Alec makes a noise like a sob and buries his face in James’ neck. “No,” he says, voice tired and frayed. “No. I can’t.”

He pitches up, yanks James’ hands down and pins them in the sheets next to James’ hips. Then he’s moving, twisting, until his mouth is on James’ cock, bare, and it’s foolish, letting Alec suck him like that. It’s not safe, or smart, but James fucks into it, helpless and hot over Alec’s tongue.

“Oh fuck,” he says, desperate. “Oh fuck. Fuck me. I’m going to--”

Alec moans, the sound whole and good in James’ cock, and he falls apart. Shoots down Alec’s throat with a shout. Whimpers when he feels Alec swallow.

Not safe. Not smart. But fuck, it feels good.

Or it does until Alec sits up. Lets James go and slides off the bed.

He turns away, silent, his shoulders shaking under his suit coat. The back of his neck slick with sweat. But his voice, when it comes, doesn’t waver.

“я тебя люблю,” he says. “James. I’ll see you soon.”

The words hang in the air, as thick as the smell of black tobacco that clings to James’ wrists, to his hands.

“I love you, too,” James thinks, strung out in the sheets. “God help me, дорогая. I do.”

In Arkhangelsk, it’s there on his tongue as he watches Alec die, kneeling before a general’s gun. _I love you_.

It’s there, too, the first and last time he stands at the memorial wall and stares at Alec’s name, biting back something that feels too much like shame. Like regret.

But the first time he says it out loud, in a field of broken statues in St. Petersburg, it’s under his breath. A curse, perhaps. Or a talisman. Either way, by then, it's too late. The man he loved is long gone. And in his place, there is this:

A creature who sneers at him from the shadows, his face twisted by fire and time. "Well, well," Treveylan says. "James Bond. Of course it is. Somehow, I knew they'd send you."

"Ah, darling," Bond says, the gun in his hand going steady. "Nice to see you, too."


End file.
